To Sea
by Shimmerwings
Summary: "I have none other than a tale of robbery and high adventure. Love, lust, and great passion. The story of great men and scoundrels, of fortune on the sea. I’m going to tell you of Captain Kid, the youngest and craftiest privateer to have ever set sai
1. The Tale

**Title:**  To Sea

**Rating:**  PG-13

**Disclaimer:**  The newsie boys aren't mine.  (They're Disney's.  Aaaaall Disney's)  The original characters are.  The plot is mine as well.  Please don't steal them.  *puppy eyes*

**Warnings:**  Incredible historical inaccuracy.  Cursing.  Eventual violence.  Thievery.  Hey, it's pirates we're talking about here.  Oh, yeah, and here be slash!

**Notes:** 1.)  Happy veryverybelated birthday to studentnumber24601!  Yay! for B.  Also, happy belated Blink Week.  

2.)  The newsie boys will be introduced starting next chapter.  (I decided to go the charmingly cliché story-telling intro route, you see . . . )  Anyway, on to the story!

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Brady O'Malley had a mind for a pint of ale and the company of a few good drinking companions. A bit of stew would go over nicely as well after a hard day's work, and there was no doubt about that. _And where's the best place on the isle for all three?_ _Why, old Billy's pub a'course,_ he answered himself, with no small amount of pride for a correct answer. Brady O'Malley might not be the cleverest chap to grace God's green earth, but he knew his drink and his supper, and there was no doubt about _that_. And, luckiest of all, Billy's pub was just where he was at.

Shouldering open the solid oak panel that passed for a door, Brady stepped into _The Blushing Maiden_. He spared an appreciative glance for the pub's bawdily winking and scantily clad namesake, painted in faded and peeling colors on the sign above the door. _The picture's for them who can't read so good_, Billy had told him one night, but Brady had his doubts about that. How were the poor sailor-types who frequented this dockside strip of taverns and inns--and mostly couldn't tell their own name from the town charter, should they see it--to know it was The _Blushing_ Maiden, if the maiden wasn't blushing anyplace that _Brady_ could see?

He supposed a pretty lass was better than words, at any rate.

The din of drunken voices (one singing a merry ditty into his cups in the corner) and laughter rolled over him as he knocked mud off his boots. It was his life if Mistress Gilly caught him making tracks on her floor. Not that a mite more dirt would have made a difference to the patrons of _The Maiden_, but only the foolhardy or recklessly drunk risked Gilly's wrath. She had a mean tongue and good aim with a wooden spoon when angry. Brady had seen her face down larger men than he with nothing but that bedamned spoon, and he was in no mood to risk a thumping this evening.

"O'Malley!"

Brady swiveled his head, quickly spotting the waving arm of Billy himself, gesturing him over to a cluster of men. The round, bald-headed pub owner was an old friend of his, and of many of _The Maiden's_ usual visitors. He often took a pint with them, if he could spare a moment. As he threaded his way around tables overflowing with pitchers and glasses half-full of liquor, Brady saw that it was Patrick, Shamus, and Donny with Billy, at their regular table, all listening to someone he couldn't make out. 

When Billy saw that he was making his way over, he turned his attention back to the stranger, absently wiping an empty mug with a rag that was probably greasier than the stew he served. Brady felt a curl of curiosity at who could be occupying their attention.

As he drew nearer, he could make out an enthusiastic voice, rising above the general ruckus.  " . . . Now in that battle Ogma the champion found Orna, the sword of Tethra . . ."

"Kaegan!" Brady shouted, recognizing the familiar story-telling cadences of the voice.  "What brings you 'round these parts, you pompous old fool?  And still spinning your fanciful yarns, I take it?"

He scraped a chair back from the table, planting himself firmly on it, boot heels on the rungs, and grinned at their wandering friend.

Kaegan Connolly returned his smile from behind the mug of ale he was drinking deeply from.  The old man looked the same as the day Brady last saw him; not a hair on his white head was missing, nor a stretch of gum exposed where a tooth used to lie.  The only sign of his considerable age was his browned skin, heavily netted with fine wrinkles.  Brady was convinced he had the Devil's own luck when it came to health.  Brady's own hair was already mostly gone the way of the Gentry.  Long vanished and naught but legends to claim it ever existed, that was to say.

Kaegan dropped his mug to the table.  "Ah, Brady, laddie.  I was wondering if you'd ever wander in.  'Lads,' I was saying."  Here he turned to the rest of the table for confirmation that he had indeed been saying that.  He received several encouraging nods.  "'Lads,' says I, 'Has our Brady come upon good fortunes and realized he was too good for the likes of humble farmers and an old sailor?'  Then, says I, 'No, not our Brady.  Even if a leprechaun were to give him a pot of gold --even then! -- he wouldn't be able to resist a pint of ale!'"

He broke into barks of laughter, and Brady joined him heartily.

"You got it all right but for the leprechaun.  Not a gold pot in sight, more's the pity."

Green eyes twinkling merrily, Kaegan beckoned Billy closer.  "A pint for Brady, to take his mind from his lack of gold."  Then he gestured expansively at the other men at their table.  "And a pint for us, to take our minds from _our_ lack!"

Patrick and Donny cheered lustily, and Shamus clapped his stooped shoulder.  Billy bobbed his head cheerfully, bustling off to fill the order.

Donny, the youngest of their group (and Brady privately thought the most light-minded) spoke up.  "Connolly was just telling us about the Battle of Mag Tuired before you came."

"That old wives' tale again?"

Kaegan gave him a long look, then turned his attention to dipping a crust of bread into the dregs of his mug to soften it.  He chewed slowly, seeming lost in his own thoughts.  Finally, he looked back up.  "You liked it well enough last time I told the tale, if memory serves."

Brady shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he had somehow offended the almost perpetually cheery old man somehow.  "Yes, but . . .  That was then, as it were," he stammered.

Waving him to silence, Kaegan gave him an almost gentle smile.  "No harm done.  You have the right of it, in fact.  A story teller must never repeat his tales.  Now, I might not be a bard, but even a poor sailor such as I knows that.  And do I have a tale for you!"   He slapped the table, good cheer seemingly restored, although Brady thought he sensed a bit of lingering solemnity.

Billy took that moment to arrive with a tray of mugs balanced on one broad shoulder, carefully distributing them before taking a seat with his own.  It was a relief to his parched throat to take a long swallow of ale.  It went down smoothly and Brady concentrated on the flavor.  Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of Kaegan's knowing gaze on him. 

_He's a strange one, he is, and no doubt about that. _

After several moments of contented guzzling, Donny once more broke the silence.  Brushing hair out of dim eyes, he leaned forward earnestly.  "You said you had a tale for us, Connolly?  A new one?"  He couldn't disguise his childish delight at the prospect.

"Aye, that I do.  That I do."

The group of men waited for him to launch into one of his elaborate legends.  For all that he wasn't a bard, he twisted a mighty fine story, ones that a body couldn't help but be drawn into.

Instead, he seemed lost in his own thoughts, twisting a rough band of silver around his finger.

When the silence at the table had stretched into awkwardness, and it seemed Kaegan would remain silent the remainder of the evening, Shamus spoke up for the first time.  

A large and bear-like man, Shamus was not known for being long-winded.  Kaegan looked up as his deep voice rumbled into words.  "Will it be another story of the warriors of old?"  He seemed gruffly embarrassed to have demonstrated interest in hearing stories at all, but a broad smile spread slowly over Kaegan's face and he lifted his glass.

"Not tonight.  I have more thrilling tales for you this eve."  With a nod at Shamus, he drank deeply.  

"The Fair Folk, then?  Pookas?  Magic and gold?"

"No, no, and no."  Kaegan seemed more pleased with each wrong guess.  "None of these and nothing you've heard before."

Brady felt a great curiosity and impatience stirring in his gut.  "What is, then?" he yelped.  "What great and wondrous tale do you have for us?"

To Brady's astonishment, Kaegan threw back his head and laughed vigorously.  "Why, lads!  I have none other than a tale of robbery and high adventure.  Love, lust, and great passion.  The story of great men and scoundrels, of fortune on the sea.  I'm going to tell you of Captain Kid, the youngest and craftiest privateer to have ever set sail!"      


	2. A Burial at Sea

**Chapter One**:  A Burial at Sea

**Notes**:  Butchered dialect, religion, and OCs, oh my!  Actually, lots and lots of OCs.  I swear you'll be seeing more of our boys in the near future.  In the meantime, enjoy Cap'n!Blink.

The services for burial at sea I got from www[dot]seaservices[dot]com[slash]anglican[dot]htm, if anyone's interested, although I chopped it up and butchered it heavily until it's nearly unrecognizable.

            Some of the sails and lines were hanging limp and heavy, and some of the tacks were full of drive, when they were done with 'em.  The Defiant sat peaceful as anything in the chill morning air, ladylike as you please, with only the regular rocking motion to remind a fellow that he were at sea.  It'd have been a fine and right beautiful morning, with the air as still and clear as it was, and the sun shining merrily like it hadn't a care in the world, had the circumstances been any other than what they were.

            Scrimshaw sighed and removed his cap to run a hand through his natty hair.  It wouldn't do to approach Cap'n while looking like he'd been drinking and merrymaking all night, and slept in hard, too.  The captain was a good man as didn't deserve the kind of grief he'd had recently, and Scrimshaw didn't mean to do anything to add to that.  Not to mention, Flotsam had been a decent man and a hardworking mate—and drinking companion, when the occasion had arisen.  Scrimshaw would surely miss him, if not half as much as the Cap'n would.

            And that was where the problem lay, he reminded himself.  The ship was ready.  They'd adjusted the sails and dropped the anchor, so that she was motionless on the water.  The Defiant was normally a sassy lass, always shaking out her hair—so to speak—and running with the waves, but today she seemed to sense the somber mood and was sitting solemnly atop the small waves.  Her list lines were drooping sadly out of trim and the top gallant yards were acock to signify a death and burial to any who'd pass by.  Rigging had seen to that, on Scrimshaw's orders.

            The body was ready, too.  Flotsom had died last night, like they'd known he would.  It was probably a relief to the poor bugger after that nasty tumble he'd taken.  Scrimshaw grimaced, recalling the scream, cut off by a sickening thud, as the ship's bosun had fallen from the rigging onto the deck.  When they had eventually sent someone back up, they'd discovered that a rope had worn through and let go at just the wrong moment.  At the time, though, all they could focus on was the broken body of their friend.  He'd been alive, but barely.  Last night he'd finally let go the ghost, after a full two days of undue suffering.  It'd been the opinion of most of the crew that they should ease Flotsam out of his pain, but Cap'n had been dead set against it.

            It was sometimes easy to forget that their captain was just barely out of boyhood, what with how tall and straight and self-possessed he stood.  But when he'd ordered them not to ease Flotsam, he'd looked the boy he was.  His hands had trembled and his voice had come nigh cracking like a lad not out of puberty.  Then he'd pulled sobriety back over himself like that eye patch of his, and had repeated the orders before walking away.

            Scrimshaw squinted into the sun, judging how far along the day was.  He was surprised to note that it had only been an hour or so since sunrise.  It had surely seemed longer.

            As soon as the sun had started peeking over the horizon, they'd set to work taking care of the body.  Izzy'd been the one to carry Flotsam, to hoist him out of the musty berth and onto the top deck, but Gull, with his nimble fingers, had been the one to sew the canvas shroud shut.  It had been a blow to give up two cannon balls to add weight to the bundle, but if you couldn't give up supplies for a friend then you were no kind of man worth knowing.  

            Before Gull had closed up the last few inches of canvas, they'd all said their last goodbyes to Flotsam.  As Scrimshaw had stood over him, noticing fondly that in death the man looked even more put together with random pieces than he had in life, and slipping one of his favorite carvings into the canvas folds, he couldn't help worrying over how the Cap'n was going to react when it came time to let the body go.  Which is how he came to be standing on deck, hemming and hawing, and not getting much of anything done.

            A red blur streaked past him.

            "'Ere, boy!" Scrimshaw barked.  "There's no call to be running about like that.  Not on this day, 'tany rate."

            The red blur came to halt and slunk back to him, all wounded innocence and big, green eyes.  "Ah, but I was just followin' orders, ye see," Scamp panted, the musical Irish lilt apparent even when the lad was breathless.  "Gull'd be fair close to running out of thread, and he'd be sending me to fetch more."

            Scrimshaw nodded.  "Along with you then, boy."  Before Scamp could dart away again, he grabbed the young man's scruffy collar.  "Do you know where Cap'n Blink be?"

            "Up at the f'ocsle, last I saw."  Scamp brushed red hair out of his eyes and shrugged his bony shoulders under Scrimshaw's grasp.  "Can I be along then?"  When he released his grip, Scamp grinned and hotfooted away toward the berth.  

            Scrimshaw spared a moment of envy for the energy of youth, before squaring his shoulders and heading up the deck for the forecastle.  It'd be the captain he needed to speak to, and lollygagging about wouldn't make things better.

            The captain was staring out at the horizon when Scrimshaw came upon him.  His back was straight, but his shoulders seemed to hunch inward on some private pain.  The sun gleamed on his blonde hair, which was shorter and much better kept than most of the other men's.  Scrimshaw doffed his cap and finger-combed his own hair one last time before approaching nervously.

            He cleared his throat.  "Cap'n?" he said.

            Cap'n Blink didn't seem to notice him at first, so he cleared his throat a bit more loudly.  The Cap'n stirred himself and turned slightly, which set his profile in sharp relief against the sun's glow.  His lips were drawn together tightly, the corners white with strain, and there were dark circles under his eyes.  There was a long pause as the Cap'n seemed to stare past him.  "Yes, Scrimshaw?" he said finally.

            "Well," Scrimshaw said, twisting his hat between his fingers until it was all out of form and would surely have to be reshaped before being fit to wear again.  "The body has been prepared and we think it's about time we're letting him go.  'Tis a right shame we don't have a priest, but Flotsam was a simple man, so maybe he wouldn't have been minding if we buried him without the rites . . ."

            The Cap'n had turned to face Scrimshaw more fully as he spoke, and his eye was intense with some emotion.  "No," he said as Scrimshaw got to this point in his prattle.

            Startled, he began to protest.  "But Cap'n, we can't just keep him on the ship.  The heat'll get to him in no time and—"

            Waving one hand a bit impatiently, Cap'n cut him off.  "That's not what I meant.  Of course he can't stay here, but he _will_ receive the proper rites.  He was an honorable, religious man and I mean to see that his spirit is at rest."

            "But who'll be doing the rites, if you don't mind me asking?"

            A hint of humor flitted across the captain's face before it was replaced once more with grief.  "Why, you will be, of course.  It _is_ traditional for the bosun to do, am I correct?"

            "The bosun?" Scrimshaw squeaked.  "Me?"  In his surprise, he almost dropped his cap, only catching it after a fumbling lunge.

            Cap'n nodded.  "You're the most qualified after . . ."  He trailed off, expression distant for a moment, before recalling himself.  "After Flotsam."  

            Pride filled Scrimshaw's chest, warming him through until he was almost beaming.  Then he remembered Flotsam's painful death, and the feeling dissipated.  Promotion at the cost of a friend's life weren't something he should be smiling about, nohow.  Still, it was a great honor to the humble likes of him and a responsibility he'd not be taking lightly.

            "Thank'ee, Cap'n," he said, before going on thoughtfully.  "I've seen a few sea burials in my day, so I can probably recall most of the formations and formal speeches and suchlike.  But who'll be giving the sermon bits and praying?"

            "Flotsam was an Anglican, as are you.  You will give the service."

            Again, Scrimshaw was taken aback.  Before he could muster up enough of his scattered wits to protest, the Cap'n was setting his shoulders and tugging the lapels of his coat into place.  "We'd best be about it then.  Gather the men," he said, and strode off, leaving Scrimshaw gaping behind him.

***

            The sun hadn't yet reached midday before the arrangements had been completed and the service was to begin.  Scrimshaw had chivvied them into finding a red cloth that would serve in place of a flag to cover the body with, and then they'd laid the body out on one of Pie Eater's galley tables.  He hadn't looked very happy to have the table dragged out onto the deck, but he hadn't said a word of complaint.

            Scrimshaw stood by the starboard gangway and looked at the crew arrayed out around the table that held the body.  From young to old, and from the lowliest nipper right on up to the first mate hisself, they all looked solemn and respectful.  The Cap'n stood slightly off to the side, dressed to the nines in courtesy to the dead.  From his hat and his buttoned greatcoat, to his polished boots, he looked like a right young gentleman, maybe one fit to serve on the King's naval ships instead of a lowly privateer's ship.  But Scrimshaw knew better than to question the motives of other men, when his own were as twisted up and confused as they were.

            When naught was to be heard but the gentle, familiar creaking of planks and the splash of water against the hull, he cleared his throat and, holding tight to his copy of the Good Book that he usually kept tucked away, began what he could remember of the service.

            "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.  He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.  And whosoever liveth and believeth I me shall never die.  He brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."  He cleared his throat and moistened his lips.  "That'd be what the Apostles are saying.  Now, ship's company . . . off hats."

            Near simultaneously, the crew members who were wearing hats reached up and placed them over their hearts.  He glanced at the Cap'n, but his eye was closed and his head was bowed, hat already in hand.

            "I'm now a'going to read from the book of Lamentations, in the third chapter.  Verses thirty-one through thirty-three.  

            "For the Lord will not cast off for ever:  But though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies.  For he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.  Amen."

            He paused.  There had been a lesson that was usually given here, but he couldn't recall what it was.  Something from Paul, he thought, but didn't want to risk it.  He hoped nobody'd notice if he skipped it.

            "We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ.  And he'll change our vile bodies, that we'll be like his glorious body."

            This was the cue to put the body into the ocean.  He signaled to Izzy and Rigging, who came forward and took hold of the sides of the table.  Between them, they were able to lift up the heavy, solid table, with body and cannon balls and all, though Rigging looked a bit strained about the eyes.  He was a strong lad, but one more suited to clambering high up with the sails, like his name said.  Izzy, on the other hand, with his broad shoulders and ham-sized arms, managed his side easily.  

            They moved to the open entry port on the starboard gangway and hoisted the table to waist height.  Rigging grunted, sweat trickling down his throat.  Scrimshaw held his breath as they upended the mess table and the body began to slip from it.  At first, Flotsam's body didn't seem like it would move, but then, weighted by the cannon balls at the feet of the bundle, it picked up momentum and fell into the sea.  The splash of impact was almost enough to cover the faint creak as Cap'n Blink clutched the railing beside him.

            Respectfully pretending not to notice his captain's distress, Scrimshaw continued on with the service.  He was on more certain grounds now and could remember most every word left.  "In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ," he intoned, "we commend to Almighty God our shipmate, Phillip Doddridge, and we commit his body to the depths.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  The Lord bless him and keep him.  The Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious to him.  The Lord lift up his countenance upon him, and give him peace.  Amen.

            "Scamp, would you sing a hymn now, if you've got one with all those other songs of yours?"

            Scamp tilted his head and pursed his lips.  "I only know one, but I ken it'll do."  The boy planted his feet and took several deep breaths in preparation.  Then he began singing, in that clear, pleasing voice of his.  "Oh God of Bethel," he began, and Scrimshaw lost himself in it until the very end.  "Oh spread Thy covering wings around, 'til all our wanderings cease, and at our Father's loved abode, our souls arrive in peace."

            "Thank'ee, lad," he said, and Scamp nodded.  "Lord, have mercy on us.  Christ, have mercy on us.  Lord, have mercy on us."

            He led the rest of the crew in the Lord's prayer, which even the least religious among their number knew.  A few stumbled over words, but they all sounded sincere, and Scrimshaw supposed that was what counted.  It was what came next that made him nervous.

            "Cap'n," he said, making the captain blink and look up in startlement.  "It's traditional for some words about the deceased to be said now, and you knew him best . . ."

            The Cap'n stared at him, face blank.  It felt like the whole crew and the Defiant herself held their breath.  When he nodded, they let out silent sighs.  Then again, they should have known the Cap'n wouldn't stand for any of the traditions to be broken.  With his hands behind his back, Cap'n Blink looked up at some point on the main mast.

            "He was my father's friend first, then my own.  He was my trusted advisor, and a good man and sailor.  May the Lord keep him," he said simply.

            "Then if no one else has words, I'll be ending the ceremony.  May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore.  Amen.  Ship's company . . . dismissed hats."

            Scrimshaw felt a surge of relief when he said the final word.  He just wasn't made to go about preaching and giving sermons and such.  'Tweren't natural to him, but it being for a good cause, he was glad he'd done it.

            The rest of the crew was scattering.  The ship wouldn't take care of herself for very long and they needed to be getting back to work.  Izzy and Rigging picked up the table again and began to haul it back to the galley, under Pie's watchful eye.  Cap'n Blink, though, instead of retiring back to his cabin, strode purposefully toward where Scrimshaw and Breaker were standing.

            "That was an excellent burial, thank you," he said before turning to his first mate.  "Breaker, because Scrimshaw is our new bosun, I'll be needing you to act as helmsman."

            "Aye, of course," the tall, granite-faced man said.

            "I'll also be needing you to set course for Boston," the Cap'n said decisively.

            "Captain?" both Scrimshaw and Breaker asked in surprise.

            "What of our course to Havana?" Breaker said.

            The Cap'n looked at them both seriously, and Scrimshaw almost couldn't recollect that he'd ever seen the captain looking anything but totally collected and calm like he was at the moment.  "With Flotsam's loss, we're now one crew member short.  We'll need all the manpower we can get once we reach warmer waters, you both know this.  Boston is the nearest harbor large enough to avoid immediate suspicion, so we'll throw anchor near there, send in some men on a longboat, and pick up an extra crew member."

            Breaker looked puzzled.  "How are we supposed to recruit someone from Boston, when we sail under the King's flag?  The colonists will spit at us and the royal navy's men will laugh at us, almost surely."

            "Who said anything about recruiting?" the Cap'n said, his body and face strangely fierce to gaze upon.  "The first strong man who isn't some colonial dandy, we'll _take_ for our new crewmate.  Now go inform the men of our course change and set sail."


End file.
